


We Have Nothing but Time

by TheRaven



Series: Memory [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:06:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1463623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRaven/pseuds/TheRaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve works with Bucky to recover his memories, but sometimes, actions are better than words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Have Nothing but Time

**Author's Note:**

> Help, it's the return of the healing cock. No, seriously, I'm trying to trend away from that, but it keeps rearing its ugly head. I hope this is enjoyable for y'all. It's meant to be read after "Memory is a Tricky Thing," but it can be read alone, I guess. I'm majorly inspired by these two.

A week after he first confronted Bucky, Steve is still in the cramped apartment, trying everything he can think of to get Bucky to remember. Most of the first two days is spent talking, Steve carefully repeating everything he can remember about their early lives, but Bucky has work on Monday. Steve spends each of the next five days keeping detailed notes on what he remembers while Bucky is gone, and the evenings are spent trying to fill in the gaps.

The memories come in pieces. Bucky will remember a single moment, then an exchange, then a conversation, then a larger scene. If he's lucky, that is. Most of the time, he only gets as far as the second part, and Steve has to fill him in, second by painful second, on what else happened in that particular instance. If he's lucky there, Bucky will nod and close his eyes, the memories slowly slotting into place. If he's not, Bucky will stare blankly at him until they try a different memory.

Every day when he returns to the apartment, Bucky says the same thing: “I didn't think you'd still be here.” And Steve laughs and tells him he can't leave yet, not without so much missing in Bucky's head. It should make him a little angry to hear it said like that, but Bucky seems to find it comforting. He takes the cup of coffee Steve offers him and sits at the tiny kitchen table covered in Steve's notes so they can continue their efforts to regain Bucky's memories.

Bucky doesn't touch him after that first night, so Steve doesn't push it. He fills the time they have with cup after cup of coffee and carefully repeated scenes from their past, and Bucky seems content with that. Steve tries to give him one new memory every morning before he leaves for work, usually a continuation of something he's tried to get him to remember the night before. It works four out of the five days. Regardless, though, Bucky leaves every morning with the hint of a smile on his lips and a glint of fear in his eyes.

The next Friday, Bucky comes back from work exhausted. He's had to stay late, and when Steve starts to hand him a cup of coffee, he holds up a hand to stop him and sinks into the chair in the living room.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, setting the mug down on the floor next to the chair.

“How long are we going to do this?” Bucky asks, closing his eyes.

“Do what?”

“How long are we gonna have you reciting memories to me and me struggling not to feel like I'm being told stories about somebody else?” Bucky rubs his temples with his gloves hands. “I feel like I'm coming apart at the seams, and I don't know if this is making things better or worse.”

Steve isn't sure what to say to that. Bucky opens his eyes, staring intently at him, and Steve feels eerily like he did when Bucky didn't recognize him. There's that same frustrated, almost offended look on his face. Like he resents having his comfortable existence shaken up, which he probably does. Steve shifts his weight from one foot to the other and tries not to look shaken.

“You knew it would be hard,” he says carefully. “You had your mind wiped so many times, it's a miracle you've managed to remember as much as you have as quickly as you have.”

He clears his throat.

“I've thought about having you talk to someone,” he says even more carefully.

“What, you mean like have me committed?” Bucky asks, a snarl twisting his features.

“No, not like that,” Steve says quickly. “I mean just talk to someone who—who has experience with PTSD and, well, things like that.”

“You really think the government or SHIELD or whoever's out to get me is gonna just let me go to therapy?” Bucky gives a harsh bark of laughter. “That's rich. You know as soon as any psychiatrist or psychologist or counselor or whatever saw me, they'd recognize me and turn me in, right? Client confidentiality be damned.”

Steve isn't so sure about that, but he decides not to press the issue.

“It was just an idea,” he says. “One of many possible ways to proceed.”

“Scratch that off your list, then,” Bucky snaps.

Steve nods and actually does; he has a list in his hand of possible ways to proceed with Bucky's memory recovery. Bucky sees the list and snorts.

“I remember you were always earnest to a fault,” Bucky says, and then he stops and looks away with a puzzled expression on his face. “I, uh, well, that's one more for the list, isn't it?”

“Yeah, I guess it is,” Steve replies with a smile, heading to the kitchen table to write it down on yet another sticky note.

Bucky looks down at his gloved hands, then pulls the gloves and his jacket off frustratedly. His metal arm gleams. He looks at it and sighs.

“What makes me worth all this trouble?” he asks, flexing his metal fingers.

“You know damn well what makes you worth the trouble,” Steve tells him, moving back to stand in front of the chair in the living room.

He leans in, reaching out with one hand to cup Bucky's face.

“You know you're worth it,” he asserts.

Bucky flinches like Steve's hit him.

“I'm a cold-blooded killer,” he says quietly. “I'm not worth more than the bullet you should've put in my head when you got the chance.”

“Don't say that,” Steve demanded. “If you weren't worth it, I wouldn't have bothered to track you down.”

He's not sure how to impress that notion upon him, so he does the only thing he can think of. He leans in further and kisses him, clumsy with the strange angle and a little afraid Bucky is going to pull a knife on him for getting so close. Bucky doesn't, though. He just tilts his head to better accommodate Steve's mouth and parts his lips. It feels unbelievably good and right for him to return the kiss, put his right hand on the back of Steve's neck.

Except Bucky stops responding and becomes entirely passive, letting Steve do whatever he wants, and everything is wrong with the stiff way he holds himself and the dull look in his eyes. He's slipping again, back into taking orders with no concept of free will. Steve pulls back, suddenly very afraid for him, and looks desperately into Bucky's eyes for that spark that has been gradually returning the longer he stays with him. Bucky just looks up at him, confused, with those same dull eyes.

“You're...” Steve doesn't know how to word it. “I don't want you taking orders,” he says finally. “I want you to enjoy yourself, not submit to my will. I want you, not a mindless slave. I need you.”

Bucky's gaze snaps back into focus, and he looks up at Steve with a hesitant expression. 

“You mean that?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

“I love you, Bucky,” Steve says, partially out of frustration and partially out of sadness. “I always have. And I know you remember loving me, somewhere in that amazing head of yours. Your body remembers. Your brain can't be that far behind.”

Bucky nods slowly. He starts to get up, so Steve takes a step away to give him room, and Bucky slips past him to amble toward the hallway again. Steve follows without Bucky beckoning him, because he's pretty sure he knows where this is going.

They haven't shared a bed since the first night he tracked Bucky down. Steve has been sleeping on the floor of the living room, bucky's pillow and a blanket thrown over him. He's tried not to think about how both smell like Bucky and about how much he wishes he could be pressed against him instead of stretched out on the hardwood. Still, he hasn't gotten much sleep. So when he sees the perfectly made-up bed in the corner of the room, he smiles.

Bucky has already taken off his clothes. He doesn't bother putting on a show, just removes them as efficiently as possible and leaves them in a heap on the floor. It's the only sign of disorder in the room, and the pit of Steve's stomach grows hot along with his face. Bucky stares at him until he realizes he wants Steve to take off his clothes, too, which he does without finesse. They stand facing each other, Bucky with his head slightly cocked to the side to study him and Steve with his hands clasped awkwardly behind his back. There's something slightly feral in the way Bucky stares at him.

“You want me to enjoy myself?” he asks.

“Of course,” Steve replies. “I want you to be happy, Bucky.”

“Do you trust me?” Bucky asks.

“With my life,” Steve assures him.

Bucky takes his hand and guides him to the bed. Steve sits at the edge of it, curious as to what Bucky is planning but unwilling to jeopardize this fragile situation by asking him what he wants to do. Luckily, Bucky doesn't waste time, taking the few steps to the dresser and pulling a small bottle of lubricant out of the top drawer. Steve isn't sure who will be using that, even after Bucky hands it to him.

“I want you,” Bucky says bluntly.

He maneuvers Steve's body so he has his legs out flat on the bed and his back braced against the wall. Bucky climbs on top of him, kneeling so his already-impressive erection just barely brushes his, and kisses him again. He opens the bottle of lubricant and squirts a good amount of it into Steve's palm.

“If we really were lovers,” Bucky says when the break for air, “then you'll know how to prep me.”

Steve swallows hard and coats his fingers in the lubricant, pretty confident about where this is going. He circles Bucky's hole a few times with one fingertip before he eases it into him, little by little. Bucky hisses in what Steve hopes is pleasure, but if it hurts, Bucky doesn't say a word about it. Instead, he grabs the back of Steve's neck and pulls him in for another kiss. Steve falters then, until Bucky reaches down with his metal hand and guides his finger further into his body.

Steve gets him used to one finger for what feels like ages, until Bucky whines impatiently and spreads his legs wider. Then he gets a second finger, slow and gentle with the first, and when Steve finally eases them both inside of him, he scissors them and twists them and drags his fingertips against Bucky's prostate. He bucks against him, bumping their foreheads together, and moans. Steve takes that as a cue to add another finger, fucking him shallowly on all three of them when Bucky's hole is used to the intrusion.

He could probably make Bucky come like this. He's done it before, back in the old days, before the serum, on days when his stamina just wasn't there and the desire to please Bucky was strong. But he has a feeling that that's not what Bucky wants tonight. So he removes the fingers, prompting a whine of frustration from Bucky, and slicks up his cock.

“Are you ready?” he asks breathlessly.

“I was ready when you were on two fingers,” Bucky grunts, lining himself up.

Before Steve can give a witty retort, Bucky sinks down on him in one long push. Steve belatedly thinks they should've used a condom, but he assumes they're both immune to any diseases they could've picked up, and anyway, he trusts that Bucky wouldn't expose him to anything dangerous. Those thoughts are quickly driven away by the tightness and heat and the sounds of Bucky panting in his ear.

“You feel—you feel amazing,” Bucky gasps, swallowing audibly.

“So do you,” Steve replies in a hushed, almost reverent tone. “Are you okay?”

Bucky replies by pulling half off of him and sinking down again, shuddering. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, and Steve leans forward to lick the blood off and to kiss him while he pulls most of the way off of him and pushes back down. Each time he does, the slide is easier, less awkward. Bucky grabs him by the hips and pulls him up against him as he pushes down, and he cries out in a way Steve has only dreamed of him doing since they first fumbled together in the dark.

Steve reaches for Bucky's cock, but Bucky shoves his hand away.

“You're not gonna touch me,” Bucky says roughly, rolling his hips in the most delicious way. “I'm gonna come just like this, speared on your cock.”

Those words send heat roiling in his gut, and he claims Bucky's mouth in a bruising kiss, moving away just long enough to suck a mark into his collarbone before trying to kiss the air from his lungs. The mark on Steve's shoulder has long since healed, but Steve still feels it, especially when Bucky lavishes open-mouthed kisses on the spot where it used to be.

“Fuck,” Bucky says abruptly. “I'm close.”

Steve's hips stutter upward at the words. Bucky clutches him, burying his head in Steve's shoulder, and fucks himself on Steve's dick once, twice, three times before he shudders and comes hard all over Steve's stomach and chest. While he's dazed and pliant in his arms, Steve pulls him off of his cock and lays him down on the mattress, knees bent, and slides back into him. Bucky grips the sheets, probably much too oversensitive, but he doesn't say a word as Steve thrusts into him for a full minute before he feels the familiar coil of electricity in his guts and spills into him, Bucky's name on his lips.

The mess between them is already cooling, but Bucky just fishes out his shirt from the pile next to the bed and wipes them down with it, tossing the shirt aside when he's done. With a lazy sort of surprise, Steve realizes Bucky's already hard again, or half-hard, at least. Give him another minute, and Steve could be, too, if he wanted to, but in the old days, once a night was about all they could handle. Steve also knows the serum affects his recovery period, but he hasn't expected Bucky to be the same.

“Can I fuck you?” Bucky asks languidly, still in the afterglow but clearly eager for another round.

Steve forgets how to speak for a second, but the words come to him eventually.

“Please do,” he says, and then he blushes.

“So proper,” Bucky says with a smirk. “I'll turn that mouth filthy, though, don't you worry.”

He fishes the lubricant from where it's fallen between the bed and the wall and coats his fingers liberally. In one smooth motion, he flips them so Steve is on his back and bends his knees until they touch his chest. Bucky licks his lips and takes in the sight of it, of Steve Rogers debauched and exposed for him. Steve trembles as Bucky's finger slides into him. He's very relaxed, understandably so, and the finger slides in with relative ease. Bucky adds another, slower and more carefully, and then another. Steve grips his legs to keep from fucking himself on the fingers and takes in deep gulps of air as he watches Bucky's face.

“You ready?” Bucky asks.

“Of course,” Steve replies.

Bucky carefully lowers Steve's legs to the mattress, then brings one up to wrap around his waist. His cock is barely pressed against Steve's entrance, and Bucky guides it in with his metal hand. Steve jolts with pleasure, but Bucky stops like he's afraid he's hurt him. Steve makes a frustrated sound and pulls his hips toward him, sliding the rest of the way onto his cock, and grins. He's hard now, achingly so, and he doesn't know whether Bucky will touch his dick or if he'll be permitted to stroke himself off while Bucky fucks him.

They move together, gradually finding a rhythm. It's a little too slow for Steve, but if Bucky wants it this way, he'll gladly take it. Bucky kisses him while he fucks him, one hand braced against the mattress and the other clutching Steve's hip. Steve debates touching his cock but decides against it. Bucky will tell him if he's allowed to, and the idea of Bucky giving or denying permission gets him harder still.

“Fuck, Bucky,” he gasps when they break for air. “I missed you so much.”

Bucky gives him a strange, almost pained look, but he keeps thrusting into him, keeps kissing the stubble on his jaw and the taut expanse of his throat and shoulders. Steve's cock rubs against bucky's stomach in a maddening, wonderful way that makes him want to fist his cock until he comes again, permission be damned. But he can't quite do it, instead pulling away just enough to speak.

“Please,” he moans. “Fuck, please, Bucky....Please let me touch myself. It hurts. I can't stand it.”

“No,” Bucky says sweetly. “You don't get to touch yourself this time, and you don't get to come until I say you can.”

Steve's hips jump up in response, and Steve throws his head back, baring his throat. Bucky sucks gently on it as he fucks him, deliberately missing his prostate with each stroke to make him last longer. The way his muscles are taut above him lets Steve know he's close, but it might be too much for Steve to take.

“Please--” he starts again, and suddenly Bucky curses and comes inside of him.

He pulls out as soon as he's spent, and for a brief, hysterical moment, Steve thinks it's over. But then Bucky is moving down his body, trailing chaste kisses over his skin, until he swallows Steve's cock whole. Clearly, the years have not restored his gag reflex, nor have they diminished his skill. Not that he needs much skill, because as soon as he swallows around him, Steve comes with a shout. Bucky swallows, of course, and pulls off of him with an obscene pop.

“I didn't give you permission to come,” he says with a lazy grin.

“I figured your mouth on my cock was permission enough,” Steve replies with a shrug.

Bucky laughs at him and lays next to him, looking more like the old Bucky than Steve has seen all that week. Maybe it's because the post-orgasm bliss makes it hard to angst about whether or not he deserves any of this, but Bucky's expression carries none of the sadness or anger Steve has grown accustomed to. Steve relishes it even as he wonders how long it will last.

“Do you remember anything else?” he asks, out of habit more than a real desire to know.

“I'm pretty sure I remember sucking your cock on a regular basis,” Bucky says with another low laugh. “Unless that was just wishful thinking.”

“No,” Steve confirms, “you did suck my cock an awful lot. I think you liked it more than fucking me.”

“Then yeah, I definitely remembered that,” Bucky says. “Now if only I could remember something useful for a change.”

“I wouldn't consider that memory to be useless,” Steve protests. “It's a pretty damn good memory, in my opinion.”

Bucky just snorts and closes his eyes.

“I could probably go all night,” he admits, “but I think we can stop here. Sound good?”

“We should get something to eat,” Steve agrees. “Are there any places around here that deliver?”

The afterglow is fading a little, and Bucky seems slightly lackluster now. He doesn't seem to regret what they did, which is Steve's main concern, but he's secretly crestfallen to see Bucky returning to his usual gloomy state. Still, they decide on Chinese, mostly because it's the only place that delivers this late, and lay in bed until it's time to buzz the delivery guy up.

“You get it,” Bucky sighs. “I'm not decent.”

“Neither am I,” Steve points out, but he gets up anyway and puts on his underwear and trousers, trying to ignore the trickle of lubricant down his thighs.

The delivery guy, despite apparently being familiar with Bucky, doesn't seem fazed by having another man open the door, nor by the obviously fucked-out state of him. Steve pays for the food with money from Bucky's wallet and gives the man a good tip to make up for having to see him like this. The man just gives him a small, knowing smile and tells him to enjoy the food.

“You're getting the door next time,” Steve says when he returns to the bedroom. “That was mortifying.”

Bucky just shrugs and takes his box of food and one of the plastic forks that came with the meal. He sits up to open the container, and Steve shucks off his clothes and sits next to him to eat. Neither man speaks until the food is almost gone.

“Is the only time I see the old you going to be when we're fucking?” Steve asks finally.

“How should I know?” Bucky replies, a little sharply.

“Sorry,” Steve sighs. “I just...want to have you back, Bucky. I want my friend back.”

“I'm here, aren't I?” Bucky says stiffly. “And I haven't tried to kill you yet. That should count for something.”

“It does, make no mistake,” Steve says quickly, “but watching you like this, it hurts. I want you to recover as quickly as possible.”

“Will I ever recover, though?” Bucky asks. “What if I just have this patchy mess of a memory forever? Are you prepared to deal with that?”

Steve looks down at his food. He knows the answer, but he wants to make sure he says it right.

“Of course,” he says after a short silence. “No matter what, I love you.”

Bucky finishes his food and sets the empty container on the floor.

“We should shower,” he says. “And change the sheets.”

Steve nods and gets up. Maybe tonight, Bucky will let him sleep in the bed with him. If not, he won't mind, but it would be nice to feel his warmth through the night. Bucky stands, looks back when he gets to the door, and gestures for Steve to follow him. Maybe they'll sleep together tonight, Steve thinks, and maybe they won't. But as long as he gets to stay close to Bucky, keep helping him recover his memory, Steve will be happy. 

He hopes Bucky will be happy one day, too.


End file.
